


heartbreak was never so loud

by epsilonargus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: hp_drizzle, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, HP Drizzle Fest 2020, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Oliver Wood, Professional Quidditch, mentions of Drarry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25907002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epsilonargus/pseuds/epsilonargus
Summary: Oliver starts out wanting to help Flint fit into the team. Somewhere along the way, he loses his heart to the large, surly Beater.
Relationships: Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood
Comments: 15
Kudos: 165
Collections: HP Drizzle Fest 2020





	heartbreak was never so loud

**Author's Note:**

> Cannot thank my beta enough for working with me on this! Another fun prompt to tackle with this fest. This is quite a rare pair, so I hope people still enjoy what I came up with. Thank you in advance for reading, and please do leave a comment to let me know what you think <3

The sun disappearing is the only warning Oliver gets. Gasping, he rolls his broom over, twisting out of Marcus Flint’s path. A vicious grin flashes at him, as the large man plummets in a blur of brown robes. Teeth gritted, Oliver steadies his broom and watches Flint pull out of the dive smoothly, effortlessly.

‘Brilliant!’ Coach Brandon booms from the stands, voice magnified by _Sonorus_. ‘Brilliantly executed, Flint! Yes, we can certainly use it against the Tornados next month. Brilliant, simply brilliant. _Quietus._ ’

‘When do you reckon he will get tired of saying that?’ Martin mutters next to Oliver.

He is glowering at Flint’s distant figure landing on the ground. The other reserve players grumble under their breaths, as they take a final lap around the pitch for a cool-down. ‘He’s still too slow,’ Jackson gripes. ‘The Chasers would see him coming for sure.’

‘Oh, that’s not his fault—our Flint is not the fastest thinker after all,’ Lee says mockingly.

‘If you know how he could improve for the team’s performance, you Chasers might want to practise with him instead of leaving it to a Keeper like me,’ Oliver interjects; they pretended to be busy with their last drills, when Coach asked for someone available to test out a new move with Flint.

He doesn’t wait for a response before putting on a final burst of speed to finish the lap. He lands first, breathless and dashing sweat from his eyes. The others catch up with him soon enough, landing around him in a rush. ‘Oh, come on, mate,’ Martin says, slinging an arm around his neck, as they stagger towards the changing room. ‘You don’t like him either, Oli! He’s a bloody Slytherin. You’re a Gryffindor—where’s the House pride?’

Oliver swats at him. ‘Piss off! We’re not at school anymore, you twat.’

‘But you Gryffindors _love_ bringing up the Hogwarts Houses,’ Jackson points out with a grin. ‘I’m Ravenclaw so I certainly don’t understand it. All right, all right, I’ll admit it was pretty rotten of us to say those things.’

‘ _You_ can say so for yourself,’ Lee retorts, walking past them to kick his locker door open. ‘It is true that Marcus Flint isn’t the sharpest quill on the desk.’

The others laugh. The room fills with desultory chatter and slamming doors, as men yank off their sweaty robes. On the other side of the wall, the women are doing the same. Oliver shrugs off Martin’s arm, rolling his eyes, and goes to his locker. Martin is usually better than most about another player’s success, but Flint swooping in to take a spot on the main team so easily grates on everyone’s nerves—especially those of them still on the reserve team.

Lee is still making nasty remarks about Flint—‘Do you reckon he has some troll blood in him? Can he even use a wand? Oliver, you took classes with him! Have you seen him perform magic?’—when the man himself walks into the changing room. Tensed silence claps over the room, and after a pause, people turn away. Lee smirks, leaning in to whisper something to Jackson, who sniggers.

Flint looms at the doorway, tall and enormous with his strong shoulders, well-built biceps and powerful thighs and calves; he has certainly put on muscle since their Hogwarts days. All Beaters are stout, but he is one of the greatest heavyweights in the league. He’s built like a dragon, but flies like a fairy; that’s why Coach and the team managers are still crowing at the coup they pulled off, enticing Flint away from the Ballycastle Bats.

The large man scowls, rubbing the back of his neck, and stumps to his locker, which is unfortunately next to Oliver’s. Oliver nods at him. Flint’s scowl deepens, and he disappears behind his locker door. Oliver shrugs, and continues changing.

‘Oli, we’re heading to the pub. You coming?’ Martin calls.

‘No, I’m knackered. You lot go ahead.’

‘Are you sure, mate? It’s Saturday—there are bound to be some birds from the girls’ school there tonight,’ the auburn-haired Chaser leers.

‘What, are you welcoming competition, Marty?’ Oliver chortles.

‘As if you stand a chance against me, you berk,’ Martin shoots back. ‘All right, we’ll see you on Monday. Don’t spend your weekend training again.’

‘You need to find something else to do, mate,’ Jackson agrees, clapping Oliver on his back.

‘Yeah, yeah—have a good one, lads.’

People call out farewells, as the changing room empties, leaving Oliver alone with Flint. The other man has been silent all this while, radiating hostility; no one says a word to him. Oliver hesitates, thinking over his words, as he stuffs his sweaty robes into his bag.

Martin isn’t precisely wrong when he said Oliver doesn’t like Flint, but he doesn’t dislike him because of the rivalry they had in school—bloody hell, that would make him enemies with all the other Quidditch Captains at Hogwarts—he dislikes Flint because of how pure dead brilliant he is at Quidditch, which, he supposes, isn’t dislike at all.

It’s infuriating how Flint has managed to hone the natural talent that took him through school Quidditch, and wrangle it into a successful professional career. In contrast, Oliver joined Puddlemere six years ago, and he is still only on the reserve team; others left after two or three years on reserve. It’s hard not to envy a successful man.

But Oliver wants to think he could give credit where credit is due, so he turns and says, ‘That move was jolly well done. I reckon you’ll give the other team a good scare.’

Flint jerks, his bag falling with a _thump_. He stares at Oliver suspiciously, before bending over to pick up his things. Slamming his locker shut, he shoulders his bag with a shrug. ‘Only did what Coach told me to,’ he mutters, not quite looking at Oliver.

‘Well—’ Oliver falters, a little surprised that Flint is deflecting praise; _not like a Slytherin_ , he cannot resist thinking. ‘Not everyone could have done it.’ He pauses awkwardly, but Flint doesn’t seem inclined to say anything more, so he continues, ‘All right, have a good rest. It was a hard practice.’ He is about to walk off, when Flint barks, ‘Wait!’

Oliver raises an eyebrow, and Flint averts his gaze, addressing Oliver’s shoulder, as he mutters, ‘Have some grub at the chip shop? With me.’

Oliver blinks. ‘Oh, I already have dinner plans,’ he replies unthinkingly.

The other man scowls, dark eyes flashing momentarily to Oliver’s face. ‘Right.’

‘You could join me,’ Oliver continues. ‘I’m only heating up some leftovers at home, but you could join me if you don’t mind my cooking.’

Flint finally looks at him full-on, face slack with incomprehension. ‘At your place?’

Oliver shrugs. ‘If you don’t mind. Come on then—I’m starving.’

It takes a beat before Flint hurries after him out of the changing room. They are silent, as they stow their brooms away and head towards the Apparition point. The pitch is dark and still to their left, the empty sky deepening to dusk overhead. Oliver glances at Flint, whose jaw seems welded shut. Well, he cannot say he didn’t expect this, he reflects wryly.

The reason he extended an invitation to Flint is the same reason Coach told him years ago that he cannot turn down pub sessions to train alone. _Quidditch is a team sport, Wood. What’s the point of a player when the rest of the team do not trust him?_ They don’t need to _like_ Flint, but the team—main and reserve—must at least know that Flint plays for them now.

The captain—James Eastwood—is away with the main team for a friendly, while Coach finesses Flint’s play for the league matches, so Oliver will do what he can for now. He doesn’t think Flint has had a meal with anyone from the team in the three months he has been with them. It’s a good sign, isn’t it, that Flint asked him first? _Maybe_ , he thinks hopefully, _Flint wants to do something about it too._ That will make things easier for the team.

Flint’s hand wraps nearly all the way around Oliver’s arm above the elbow, his fingers thick and strong; as a Keeper, Oliver himself isn’t without muscle—Flint is just bloody huge. The other man releases him as if scalded the moment they arrive in the front hall of Oliver’s flat. He steps backward into the cloaks and turns in alarm, ripping them off their pegs. His flailing arm knocks the brooms to the ground. He freezes, face turning ruddy.

‘Sorry,’ he says through clenched teeth, fumbling in his pockets for his wand.

‘It’s fine,’ Oliver says hastily, forestalling any spell Flint is about to cast. It is also true that Flint is hopeless at magic: Oliver has seen the Slytherin set a feather on fire trying to levitate it.

He gestures his guest towards the kitchen, pulling out his wand to fix the mess. Alone in the hall, he straightens the cloaks and old brooms, wondering why the hell he’s doing. Putting any rivalry aside, he doubts he has anything in common with Flint. He thinks about the mean, sour-faced boy from school, and shakes his head. _Bugger_.

Flint looks too large and awkward in Oliver’s small kitchen. He is sitting at the round table pushed into the corner, looking around the cheery, crowded space. ‘You like cooking,’ he states, when Oliver enters, rolling his sleeves up.

‘A little,’ Oli replies, taken aback. ‘Most of this,’—he gestures to the many pots and pans, spatulas and wooden spoons hanging on the wall—‘is Alice’s. My ex-girlfriend,’ he explains. ‘She left them when she moved out. She was going to Australia, so she didn’t see the need to lug them overseas with her.’

‘Oh.’ Flint looks down at his fists, bulky on the sunflower-yellow table top, the table being another of Alice’s purchases.

Oliver hovers uncertainly, but when Flint doesn’t say anything else, he begins preparing dinner. ‘I can’t cook anything fancy—Alice was the one who usually cooked—but I can do a few things well, which, I reckon, is all I really need to survive. So I have chicken pot pie from the shop and I’m stir-frying some vegetables. Hope you’re okay with eggplant.’

Flint grunts, which Oliver takes for assent. He smirks, turning back to the stove. The big man would definitely hate the comparison, but there is something undeniably troll-like about his behaviour. It’s curious enough that Flint accepted _his_ invitation; still, if Flint wants to try to mend the gap in the team, Oliver feels obliged to help him.

They have a good team this year; Oliver is sure that with Flint, they would be able to beat the Bats and take the top spot in the league. This has been the closest Puddlemere has been to the top in at least five years. Last year, they finished fourth from the bottom; it was abysmal.

Oliver serves dinner, and Flint stares at his plate with astonishment that is a little offensive. Oli begins eating with a shrug. The silence is fraught, Flint a barely suppressed ball of aggression and uneasiness. The other man keeps sneaking looks at Oliver’s face and around the kitchen, as if—like Oliver—not quite sure how he has landed here.

‘Thanks,’ he growls to his eggplant stir-fry.

Oliver looks up, and sees the flush on Flint’s cheeks, the way his body flinches from Oliver’s gaze. _Oh_ , Oliver thinks, abruptly charmed to see such a large person so wary. _He’s embarrassed._ He smiles, waving away Flint’s gratitude, and launches into a discussion about the afternoon’s practice. Did Flint see his play, he wants to know, what does he think about it? It’s suddenly very easy to make conversation with this ridiculously awkward bloke.

The night ends more quickly than he expects, and when Flint hears he plans to practise tomorrow, he offers to help, and Oliver accepts. When they finish training the next day, Oliver invites Flint over for dinner again, and Flint mutters, _yeah, thanks, mate_. Somehow, this becomes a settled thing: Oliver cooks for Flint whenever they train together, which happens every weekend and one or two weekday, and they spend the whole night dissecting the day’s play. He doesn’t notice they are spending so much time together until Martin brings it up.

‘What are you playing at, Oli?’ the auburn-haired Chaser slurs, draping an arm around his shoulders, leaning heavily against him; he is four drinks deep into his cups. ‘You’re spending more time with Flint than us! The git can’t be better company than us.’

Oliver makes a face, shoving Martin back into his seat. ‘I’m here now,’ he retorts, even if he isn’t having as much fun as he usually does. It’s Friday night, and Flint asked him to come over for a drink, but Martin asked him first, and it _has_ been a while since he was out with the lads—over a month, in fact. He tries not to think about Flint staring after them, as Martin dragged Oliver away, yammering about finding Oli a bird to snog. Next time, he decides, he’s inviting Flint along.

‘Or are you feeling lonely with Eastwood away?’ Lee smirks, leaning over the sticky table; a few of those in his circle laughs, exchanging glances.

‘Shut up, Lee,’ Melissa, a Chaser, warns; it’s bad form to bring up the affairs that go on under the team’s general sunny camaraderie. It’s inevitable that players fall into bed with each other when they are all, as professional athletes, highly physically attractive, but Coach and the managers come down hard on them when these relationships affect their playing as it happens sometimes. So the rule of thumb is: fuck whomever you want, but don’t fuck on the pitch.

Oliver meets Lee’s scornful eyes. ‘As lonely as you are when you sprained your right hand.’

The others burst into boisterous laughter, and Lee rolls his eyes and chuckles good-naturedly. He knocks his pint against Oliver’s, raising it to his lips, ‘Cheers, mate,’ before gulping it down. Oliver returns his grin, downing his pint as well. He sets the mug down heavily, belching loudly. The lads slap him on the back, pressing another pint into his hands.

And so the night goes on until everyone is well and properly sloshed. Oliver has fun in the end; but Flint’s eyes—dark, furious, betrayed—remain stuck in his mind, and he is the one who appears on Flint’s doorstep the next day. It’s earlier than their usual time when Flint comes pick him up for training in the late afternoon, but he isn’t sure if Flint would even show after yesterday. He rubs his nose, itchy and red from the Pepper-Up Potion, and wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans before knocking on the door.

Flint opens the door, snarling. ‘ _What_?’

They both freeze. Flint is clutching a towel around his hips, water running in rivulets from his wet hair and down his arms, chest, stomach, _absolutely fucking everywhere_. Oliver forgets to breathe, catching himself before his gaze goes any lower.

‘Merlin, you’re big,’ he blurts, somehow forgetting to think as well.

Flint flushes, and his free hand jerks as if hoping to cover up his modesty with the expanse of his palm. Oliver’s traitorous mind helpfully suggests something else that would fit nicely in that big, rough hand. _Fuck’s sake, Wood._ He looks away, chagrined, because Flint is clearly uncomfortable.

‘Sorry, I—’

‘What do you want?’ the other man growls. ‘It’s not three yet, and I would have gone to your place. What are you doing here?’

Oliver blinks. Flint hadn’t say that he wouldn’t turn up after all, and Oliver would sound like a distrustful bastard for saying anything like _oh, I wasn’t sure if you would be there_ after their weeks of training together. ‘I thought … that we might get lunch,’ he says lamely.

‘Oh.’ Flint stares at him for a beat. ‘Well, come in then,’ he mumbles, turning away. ‘Sit anywhere, I’ll go change.’

Flint’s flat is militantly bare: there is basic furniture like a sofa, tables and chairs, but nothing in way of personal embellishments. This is probably how it looked when the landlord handed over the keys. Oliver wanders into the kitchen, peeks into the fridge and winces at the lonely candy bar holding court. He is examining the wilting mint plant on the windowsill above the sink, when Flint comes in with a formidable scowl— _ah, he’s embarrassed._

‘I think it needs more water,’ Oliver says with a grin. ‘I didn’t know you like plants, mate.’

Flint shrugs, looking at the plant. ‘Bought that from the shop. Thought I could try keeping it alive … don’t think I’m succeeding,’ he scoffs. ‘Should throw—’

‘No, no, you just need to water it more frequently. Keep the soil evenly moist,’ Oliver sticks a finger into the hard soil, wriggling it. ‘Yeah, not enough water.’

‘Oh. Do you … know plants?’

Oliver laughs, brushing the dirt off his hands. ‘Somewhat. My mum loves plants, eh? We have a greenhouse at home. She was always disappointed in my Acceptable in Herbology. Reckons I should be Exceeding Expectations, you know.’

‘My folks are generally relieved I get As. Beats the straight Ps and Ds I got throughout most of school. I repeated a year so I could get at least one NEWT, and not be a complete embarrassment to the Flint name.’ He stares at Oliver with an ugly scowl, his fists clenched by his sides; he looks ready to pound Oliver into the floor for hearing information _he_ provided.

‘Well, it’s a good thing you did,’ Oliver replies equably. ‘Slytherin would probably not have won any matches without you. You had at least suspended their losing streak for another year.’

The burly man blinks, and gives a bark of astonished laughter. He turns away, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘What do you feel like having for lunch?’

Oliver grins, taking in the tell-tale redness of the other man’s ears. ‘Well, is there a spot around here that does a decent fry-up? Merlin, I need something greasy and fried after last night.’

Lunch is easy, Flint listening to Oliver’s gripes about taking care of a drunk Martin with a less stony expression that usually means he’s amused. He doesn’t seem to mind that Oliver chose to go off with the lads last night, and when Oliver invites him to come along next time, he shrugs and says wryly, ‘You might want to check with the others on that first. Most birds tend to stay away when I’m in the area.’

Oliver laughs. ‘ _I_ wouldn’t mind that.’

‘Yeah?’ The other man cocks his head, eyeing him somewhat dubiously.

‘What?’ he sputters, mock offended. ‘Do I seem like a slut?’

‘No … but you get attention, don’t you?’

Oliver pauses in the midst of sopping up egg yolk with his toast, and looks at Flint with some surprise. The big man returns his gaze guilelessly, brows slightly furrowed in puzzlement: he means what he said. Oliver flushes, dropping his gaze to his plate.

‘Just because I’ve managed to trick _one_ girl to be my girlfriend doesn’t mean I get attention,’ he says lightly, and pops the toast into his mouth.

Flint makes a face. ‘Still one more than me, mate.’

‘It’s probably your face,’ Oliver tells him seriously.

The other man scowls, and screws up his face tighter, glaring at Oliver cross-eyed. Oliver throws his head back, laughing uproariously, causing little old ladies to stare at him in affront. ‘Oh, it’s definitely your face,’ he sputters.

Flint is grinning, his usually hard eyes warm and crinkling at the edges. Something that feels like endearment tugs on Oliver’s chest. Oliver swallows, ignoring it, and asks Flint if he’s ready to go before they get thrown out for disorderly conduct.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur, the pitch and stands and rings melding together on the edges of his vision. Oliver, still a little hungover, does familiar manoeuvres, exulting in how smoothly his body flows in the movements, rendered easy only because of hours and hours of practice. He spends most of the time watching Flint, and Merlin, _he_ makes the bloody Demiguise XXXX Feint seem easy.

Flint is a brutally glorious flier: he smashes a Bludger into your face, and leaves you bloody-mouthed and gawping at his ridiculously graceful moves. When he plays, his dark gaze sharpen to a point like daggers, and his mouth stretches into a rictus of aggression. Oliver is constantly on the receiving end of that keen attention playing opposite Flint during their practices. He thinks he should probably be concerned about how his pants are always uncomfortably tight when he’s flayed open like that by Flint’s eyes.

But he mustn’t acknowledge it, because they’re friends now, and Marcus still doesn’t have many of that on the team; still surly and taciturn in the locker room; still scowling whenever anybody so much as glances at him during team dinners. Oliver tries to draw him into conversation; they’re talking about bloody Quidditch, for Merlin’s sake, and Marcus is always as enthused about discussing it as him.

Jackson is smirking knowingly. ‘Oh, come on, mate. Can we talk about something _besides_ Quidditch?’

‘Not talk about Quidditch?’ another teammate Sam chimes in, her eyebrows raised. ‘What else does Oli do?’

Oliver rolls his eyes. ‘I do plenty of other stuff, you idiots. I—I cook—’

‘You only started when Alice left,’ Martin points out from his other side.

‘You might as well as bind your broom to yourself,’ Melissa says teasingly. ‘You always look a little weepy when you put it away for the night.’

‘Oh, I’m sure he can find better things to put between his legs.’ Sam waggles her eyebrows meaningfully. ‘James will be back soon, won’t he?’

Oliver, his cheeks burning hot, chances a glance at Marcus sitting diagonally across from him. The other man is eating his pasta with fatalistic determination, not appearing to have heard what Sam said—or at least, pretending; there is no way he didn’t hear, even in the noisy restaurant. Oliver isn’t trying to hide anything—that he’s bi, or that he is shagging the captain—but he cannot tell how his new friend would react. Rationally, he knows that he cannot be friends with a bloke who is disgusted that he sucks cock, but: there is a stupid, niggling _but_.

Jackson is guffawing. ‘Maybe you’d be doing other things more often, if James isn’t so busy.’ He knocks his elbow into Oliver’s, leaning in close with a gust of beery breath. ‘ _Maybe_ you need someone else between your legs,’ he leers, a hand creeping across Oliver’s thigh. ‘What do you say, Oli?’

‘Merlin, I thought Lee was the creepy one,’ Oliver knocks his hand away. ‘Shove off, Jackson. I don’t think Lee will be very happy to know that you’re offering to fuck someone else on the team.’

The blond flushes bright red, as the others gasp with mock surprise and exaggerated astonishment. Most of them have known for months that Lee and Jackson are shagging: it’s hard to avoid the evidence when Jackson is abruptly falling all over himself to suit Lee’s every whim and fancy.

‘Does everyone know?’ Jackson asks in a small voice, his bravado vanishing.

Up and down the table, people nod. Cheeks still flaming, he gulps down the rest of his pint. He slams the mug down, and points an accusing finger in Oliver’s face. ‘You outed us, you bastard!’

‘The two of you are already out,’ Oliver retorts. ‘And it’s not like you are trying very hard to hide your illicit affair, mate.’

‘Yeah, well … Lee doesn’t want people to know,’ Jackson says quietly, and slumps in his seat looking morose.

Oliver sighs, his irritation vanishing, and pats his teammate on the shoulder. He exchanges a glance with Martin, who promptly announces that no one is going home tonight sober, and besides, Lee is the bastard who skipped the hallowed team dinner for some stupid _date_ , as if that should matter more than his teammates. The others join in with bluff cheeriness, Sam slinging an arm around Jackson’s neck.

Oliver excuses himself to fetch the drinks, and Martin takes his seat, twining his arm around Jackson’s neck too, so the poor bloke looks half-strangled. Chuckling, Oliver winds his way through the crowded restaurant. It’s a Friday night, and half the town—a mix of oblivious Muggles and savvy wizards—throngs the popular spot.

He leans on his elbows against the counter, waiting for the bartender to return with the drinks. Marcus’s approach is a physical awareness prickling against the back of his neck, the same emanation that must accompany all large forces of nature. He glances over his shoulder, smiling in welcome at the other man, who grunts at him in response.

‘What, don’t think I’ll get your order right?’ he teases. ‘You always drink a lager, mate, it doesn’t take a Transfiguration Master.’

‘Can you say that here?’ Marcus asks, looking at the Muggles warily.

Oliver sniggers. ‘If they’re afraid of us, it won’t be because they think we’re magic, mate.’ He looks pointedly up and down Marcus’s thickly muscled body.

The other man flushes. ‘Right. They _would_ think I’m as much an idiot as wizards do.’

Oliver frowns. ‘You’re not an idiot, Marcus.’

His friend is staring down at his fingers clenched on the countertop. ‘Thanks anyway, for—’ he gestures vaguely towards the team. _For making me part of the team._ ‘I’m not good at … talking and stuff.’

‘I don’t know, I have fun talking to you,’ Oliver replies carefully. ‘I think the others would too.’

Marcus looks up, an odd look in his eyes, lips pressed into a line. He might have said something, but the bartender returns, shoving the drinks between them with a cheery _here you go, mate!_ When they go back to the table, James and a few others of the main team have come, and the captain grins at the sight of Oliver, taking the drinks from his hands and greeting him with a kiss on the cheek.

‘I’ve missed you, Oli,’ he says, and Oliver tries to smile, despite his heart plunging with dread.

Marcus has set the drinks down, and is withdrawing from the table, expression surly. Nobody spares him a glance, and he doesn’t look up for all Oliver’s efforts to catch his eye. Shrugging on his jacket, he turns to leave, and Oliver opens his mouth, an aborted _Marcus, don’t leave_ stuck in his throat, because how does he explain it?

That James and he aren’t a couple; that it’s just sex between them, and James is very affectionate with his lovers, of which he has had a few on the team; that Oliver knows he cannot be with a teammate anyway, because he’s still competing for a spot on the main team. Yes, he is friends with Martin and Jackson and the rest, but he would still be envious should one of them earn a spot on the team, as they would be of him.

Except: not with Marcus. It has been a while since he thought of Marcus Flint with any sort of envy—or with anything other than a smile when looking at the other man. Merlin, he cannot stop smiling at the barest _thought_ of the other man who always looks like he wants to punch someone’s lights out. He watches Marcus go, biting his bottom lip hard against the jagged edges of horror and panic stuck deep in his chest.

He doesn’t want to think about it, and a night out at the tavern and later, in James’ bed is the distraction he needs. The next morning, when he tells James he doesn’t think they should sleep together anymore, the handsome dark-haired man smirks. ‘So I hear about you and Flint is true?’ he asks, not unkindly, genuinely curious.

‘No,’ Oliver says tersely. ‘I’m fairly sure Marcus is straight.’

James eyes him, but doesn’t press it. Soon, the rest of the team knows that James and Oliver are no longer shagging, but thank Merlin no one has the time or energy to make snide remarks, as the team focuses on the upcoming match with the Wasps. They had swept the win easily in the match against the Tornadoes last month; Marcus’s introduction as a Puddlemere player had seized the entire league’s attention, and now, people will be watching the next game closely.

Oliver sees less of Marcus, as the main team’s training becomes longer and more frequent. Every now and then, reserve players are swapped in to play with the main team to prepare for situations where main team players are incapacitated, but there is another reserve Keeper, Lionel, and everyone knows Lionel is the better player.

So Oliver trains by himself, longer and harder, until there are days when he tumbles from his broom to the pitch, prone, but too tired to think, to do anything but breathe. He listens to the blood rushing in his ears, gulping down lungfuls of cool, clean air. He ignores the dark clouds gathering in the distance, ponderous and grave. When he can move again, when a little voice threatens to whisper about _oh, what’s the point, Wood? Why are you still here? You’re only a reserve,_ he wrenches himself up to his feet and back onto his broom.

One second, the wind is gentle against his sweat-slicked skin, smelling faintly of rain, and Oliver thinks to do one more lap around the pitch. The next moment, thunder crashes and lightning splits the sky, upending a storm like he has never seen in Dorset. He is flung away from the pitch, across the iron-grey sky.

He barely manages to wrestle his broom under control, when he hears Marcus calling, hurtling towards him. He grabs the other man’s robes just in time, nearly hoisted off his broomstick. Marcus gestures, shouting something indecipherable over the roaring wind, but his intentions to bind them together are obvious enough.

The rain is all around them, stinging sharp as icicles in their faces, hurled by the brutal wind. Oliver grimly bends lower on his broom, hands tightening, fighting to keep it from jumping beneath him. In this raging storm, his and Marcus’s bulky bodies lashed together by spellwork do close to nothing to give them a steadier course.

They cannot fly for much longer. Oliver is losing feeling in his fingers. Marcus is only an arm’s length away, but all he can see is a vaguely man-shaped grey blur. Abruptly, Marcus jerks their brooms downwards. Oliver yells, his voice ripped away by the wind. Marcus turns, indicating the thick unbroken forest beneath them: he’s spotted shelter, somewhere.

Oliver doesn’t see it, but Marcus is right after all, bringing them to a rocky outcrop, its summit as tall as the surrounding trees. Using gouging spells, they widen a crack into an alcove and squeeze in, panting with relief. Oliver fixes a _Protego_ across the entrance to block out most of the rain.

The sound of their ragged breathing is loud. The alcove is uncomfortably tight, their arms pressed against each other and rock walls, the entrance barely a metre from their toes. Oliver checks his broom anxiously, but thank Merlin, the tail twigs are largely intact—no harm done to the delicate weight and balance of his Comet. He dries himself off with a few Hot-Air Charms, glad when his robes no longer lie plastered to his skin. Next to him, Marcus is doing the same.

He watches the other man warily, but he doesn’t seem inclined to speak, so Oliver breaks the silence. ‘Were you on the pitch? Didn’t see you.’

‘No,’ Marcus grunts, and leaves it at that; he is frowning down at his sodden boots. With an irritated sigh, he begins running his wand carefully over the leather. He hasn’t looked at Oliver.

‘Why were you flying in the rain then?’ Oliver asks, perplexed.

‘I was … I was looking for you … at your flat,’ Marcus says, grimacing as if the words taste foul on his tongue. ‘You weren’t home, so I figured you would be at the pitch. I saw you get blown off-course.’

‘Oh.’ Oliver blinks. ‘Why were you looking for me?’

The other man shrugs, jaw clenched. He returns his fierce attention to his boots, cursing under his breath. He still doesn’t seem inclined to meet Oliver’s eyes. Oliver bites his bottom lip, watching the other man wave his wand over the boots, his spellwork clumsy enough to nearly set them on fire with the wrong emphasis. His face is turning red and blotchy, his fists clenched white on the leather.

‘Come on, let me do it,’ Oliver says quietly, and reaches over, his fingers brushing against the back of Marcus’s hand. The other man jerks back as if burned, the shoes thudding to the ground; Oliver pretends not to notice.

He picks up a boot, and murmurs the Hot Air Charm, glancing surreptitiously at the other man. Marcus is scowling down his wand clutched in his right hand. His voice comes out choked, as if he is wrapping his fist around his own throat. ‘I’m such a fucking idiot. It’s true that I don’t have any fucking brains—miracle I left school with any NEWTs at all. I don’t know why you’re so fucking nice to me.’

Oliver stops, facing the other man fully. Marcus tosses his wand aside with darkest disgust, pressing his elbows onto his knees and dropping his hand into his hands. ‘I won’t—I won’t bother you again.’ His voice is muffled.

‘I’m not nice,’ is the only thing Oliver can think to say. ‘And you’re not an idiot, for Merlin’s sake, stop saying that. Just because you weren’t good at school—it doesn’t mean a thing. You’re a brilliant Quidditch player, Marcus. That’s your genius—you’re not a fucking idiot, you fucking idiot.’

The dark-haired man lifted his head in the middle of Oliver’s rant, and he gives him a half-smirk now. ‘Thanks, mate. You know just what to say.’

Oliver returns the smirk, setting the boots aside. ‘Look, you’ve never been a bother. We’re—we’re friends, and … I have always liked spending time with you, and I’ve never thought you were an idiot.’

‘Even at school?’ Marcus’s chin is set stubbornly, a glint in his eyes that says he know what Oliver’s answer will be.

‘Does it matter?’ Oliver retorts, tone sharpened by annoyance. ‘We didn’t know each other then, and we were on rival teams. I thought the war has put all that House nonsense to bed, especially if what the _Daily Prophet_ says about Harry and Malfoy is true. So, does it matter that I _used_ to think you were an idiot, before I got to know you and—and like you?’

He must have overdone the Hot Air Charm, because their little cave is abruptly too warm and airless. He avoids Marcus’s gaze, flicking a glance out at the rain blurring past the entrance. Lightning flashes, and the roar of thunder fills the silence between them. Merlin, _fuck_ , he should have added _as a friend_ at the end. Oh, there’s no use pretending he doesn’t know why he did it: because it’s a relief, a rush of cool happiness, that he has managed to _say_ it at last, to hear the words _I like you_ out there in the world.

Marcus watches him, assesses him, trying to see how he might break his defence. ‘I like you,’ he says, voice gruff, large fists clenched. He looks as if he would very much like to punch Oliver in the face, his eyes narrowed and nostrils flaring.

‘Oh,’ Oliver says weakly. He raises a hand to his forehead, not sure what he meant to do, running it through his damp hair. ‘I—oh.’

Marcus barrels on: ‘I’d get it if you don’t want—to be with me, so you only need to say the word. I’m not the Golden Snitch, not even the Quaffle, and I’m sorry, but I really fancy you, Oliver. I know it’s ridiculous, because I thought you were straight—all along—and even if you weren’t, there’s no bloody way you would choose _me_ , but I—I—you are nice. You are so fucking nice to me even after—after everything. And I just— _like_ you, I suppose.’

He looks away, face dark and forbidding, cracked with thunder like the storm raging outside.

‘You know you’re the only one who doesn’t tell me I need something more than Quidditch,’ Oliver says quietly, twisting his fingers together. ‘My family and friends—they mean well of course. But it’s not like I’m trying to … fill a hole or something with Quidditch. It’s only that … I really bloody love the sport, and I’m contented that I can work on it with my life.

‘You support me … it gets tough sometimes, to keep going, when I’ve been on the bloody reserve team for _six years_. People ask why I’m still trying—but not you. Because you understand this, don’t you? Understand what Quidditch _means_.’

Marcus is looking at him, face slack with disbelief—as if he has never heard such praises. Oliver decides that Marcus Flint will always hear the nice things about himself, because he deserves nice things. He takes a deep breath, trying to quell the tangle of emotions rising in his throat. He reaches out, wraps his hand around Marcus’s fist: the other man’s skin is chilly.

‘You’ve only given me good advice and insight, Marcus. You’re _brilliant_ at Quidditch. You don’t need to be good at what _other people_ are good at; you’re good at what matters to _you_. Don’t fucking say that I wouldn’t choose you. That just fucking hurts me, that you think so little of yourself. You can’t say such things about yourself.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m not trying to—’ Marcus is stumbling over his words, his face breaking open with dismay, as he reaches out to take Oliver’s arm. ‘I don’t want to hurt you. I’m sorry.’

‘I know, I know,’ Oliver says, placing a hand carefully on Marcus’s face. ‘I’m only trying to tell you that the words you say about yourself affect me now too, because … I care about you. You have been a good friend, and … I suppose I didn’t dare think there could be more. I mean, you’ve never given any indication that you like blokes.’

Marcus flushes, lowering his gaze. ‘I _was_ going to tell you, but then I heard about you and the captain, and I realised there wasn’t any point after all.’ He pauses, looking up at Oliver, leaning his face into Oliver’s palm. ‘I was looking for you, because I just heard—we were at Sam’s flat—and I heard that you broke things off with James. And I thought—I thought I had to see you.’

There is something volatile in Marcus’s dark gaze, a barely-restrained violence hinted by his large, stupidly graceful body. He turns his face, lips brushing against Oliver’s palm. ‘I’m not an idiot, but I’m not very bright—we can accept that, can’t we? So, you have to tell me, mate, am I reading this all wrong?’

‘How are you reading this?’ Oliver whispers, unable to look away.

His friend’s dark eyes are lit by the same fervour, the same intensity on the pitch when he is chasing a Bludger. Oliver is vaguely aware he is forgetting to breathe.

‘I want to kiss you,’ Marcus says, and his words are already brushing against Oliver’s lips, the promise of tenderness.

Oliver inhales sharply—rock dust, rain and the musky scent of Marcus’s skin—and their lips meet, Marcus soft and pliant beneath him. Heat rushes through him, urgent and heady, forcing him onto his knees, placing his hands on Marcus’s shoulders, pressing closer to the other man. The kiss deepens: Marcus kissing him back, lips parting, skin warming beneath Oliver’s hands.

‘Oli,’ Marcus gasps, hands catching him by his waist.

Oliver pants, resting his forehead against the other man’s, eyes closed. Marcus’s breath is warm against his cheek. He opens his eyes, and laughs a little to see how he is straddling Marcus Flint, pushing him down into the dirt. Marcus is looking up at him, kiss-bruised mouth open, dark eyes wide with amazement. He is very aware indeed of Marcus’s hands—large, powerful, calloused—on his waist, of Marcus’s body broad and muscular caught between his legs.

‘I have always wondered,’ Oliver says, voice a little husky, ‘if what they say about a Beater’s expertise in handling sticks is true.’

Marcus’s eyes widened. ‘You want to find out— _here_? Dirty little minx!’

Oliver shrugs. ‘Well, it’s still raining.’ Thunder smashes outside, and the rain patters down ceaselessly. ‘And we always believe in putting in some practice, don’t you reckon?’

Marcus grins slowly, bright and glittering. ‘Only if you set up the Cushioning Charm.’

‘Oh, am I the top this time round, love?’ Oliver asks teasingly, and leans in again.

Outside, the storm swirls through the forest and around the rocks, but since Oliver is perfectly dry and warm and occupied, he doesn’t mind it in the slightest.


End file.
